


Playing for Keeps

by tarysande



Series: Grace Shepard [11]
Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-28
Updated: 2016-06-28
Packaged: 2018-07-18 20:38:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,222
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7329877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tarysande/pseuds/tarysande
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He’d given her the opportunity to back away weeks ago, to end what had begun while keeping her dignity and their friendship intact, and she hadn’t taken it. Hadn’t even contemplated it. Because she’d thought he was dead and then he wasn’t; because he’d shaken her hand with both of his; because while his calm demeanor hadn’t faltered, his eyes had told her he was as happy to see her as she was him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Playing for Keeps

Standing in front of her wardrobe, hands on her hips, Shepard wondered whose job it was to come up with N7-branded clothing, and, more importantly, just how drunk on that power they must have been when they decided it was a good idea to start slapping red and white stripes on everything from underwear to dresses to t-shirts to hoodies. She was as proud as the next N7 Marine to have earned the right to wear her designation, but a tasteful icon on the breast of her armor was, in her somewhat-scathing opinion, a far cry from a vast number and letter emblazoned across the seat of her sweatpants.

She flicked aside the N7 dress that couldn’t have been less her style if it tried, and openly glowered at the shoulderless jumpsuit that had, horror of horrors, once again migrated to her closet. She’d put the last one in the trash compactor and felt no regret as she slammed her fist down on the button that sent it careening out into the void of space. The thing was like a cat. Nine damn lives.

The uniforms and flight suits were out, too. The last thing she wanted on this particular occasion and for the purposes of this particular conversation was any reminder of her rank. She’d have given a great deal for a slim black skirt and a jewel-toned ( _not_ red or white) blouse, maybe some work-inappropriate heels, in order to project the image of elegance without being staid, attractiveness without aiming for overtly seductive.

What she had was the hodgepodge collection that never seemed to leave her cabin, no matter what version of the _Normandy_ she was on. She snorted, shaking her head. Given how quickly the _Normandy_ had fled Earth, she figured she should be glad she wasn’t forced to make do with Anderson’s gear. It was a wonder any of her things remained at all; they’d certainly been thorough enough when they’d disposed of every other personal article she’d left behind when she turned the _Normandy_ over to the Alliance six months earlier. She sent a slantwise glance at the empty hamster cage and the glass case displaying only the pair of models she’d found stuffed into the crates in the hold. She’d have gladly borrowed standard gear if it meant Anderson himself was occupying this cabin instead of fighting for his life—fighting for all their lives—back on Earth.

Lifting her hand, she touched reverent fingertips to the tags hanging once again between her breasts, and she banished the echo of self-recrimination her thoughts had taken on. Anderson had made his choice. She wasn’t going to do him the disservice of second-guessing him now.

Sighing, she reached for jeans and a soft, fitted t-shirt that, if a little informal, at least had the distinction of being utterly plain, with nary an N7 or Alliance logo to be seen. Even if it was black.

Dressing, however, left her feeling curiously unprotected, and she sighed again, the sound lost to the soothing beat of the music she rarely turned off. She could have been kitted out head to heel in ablative coating, kinetic shields at one hundred percent, full complement of weapons at her back, and she still wouldn’t have felt ready for the task ahead. Battle—assessing a field, giving orders, lifting her rifle and pulling the trigger— _that_ she could do. It was second nature. It was in her blood. When facing a horde of hostiles she knew how to capitalize on her strengths and minimize or adjust for her weaknesses. But here? Alone in her too-large cabin, empty fish tank murmuring quietly, closet full of clothes she’d never have chosen for herself? Preparing for a conversation whose outcome she didn’t know how to anticipate? Trying to make sense of longings of the heart her every logical instinct screamed were a defect that might interfere with her ability to perform her duty? She was out of her depth and she knew it. It was a weakness she hadn’t yet learned how to compensate for.

Worst of all, he’d given her the opportunity to back away weeks ago, to end what had begun while keeping her dignity and their friendship intact, and she hadn’t taken it. Hadn’t even contemplated it. Because she’d thought he was dead and then he wasn’t; because he’d shaken her hand with both of his; because while his calm demeanor hadn’t faltered, his eyes had told her he was as happy to see her as she was him.

Damn Garrus Vakarian anyway.

She pulled her hair down from the tail that was becoming ubiquitous and combed her fingers through the soft waves. _Your hair looks nice._ Almost against her will, her hands dropped to her waist, hovered there, and fell back to her sides again. She considered refreshing her makeup, too—she’d long since learned cosmetics could be better armor even than ceramic plating—but refused to succumb to the temptation to build yet more barriers. The looming conversation was about breaking down walls, not building them up further. She hoped, anyway.

Her door chimed. Instead of calling him in, she answered it personally. Anxious as she was, she didn’t pretend to hide her smile. Like her, Garrus had gone with civilian gear, forgoing the heavy, intimidating armor. This time he didn’t carry a bottle of liquor (not even the superior one his new salary could provide), and he hovered on the threshold instead of nervously heading for the sound system. He did shift from foot to foot, though, and he watched her with that keen raptor gaze, chin dipped in a way that had nothing to do with his height and everything to do with the nerves he was trying very hard to hide.

“You wanted to see me, Shepard?”

“I did,” she said, perhaps a trace too curtly. She gave her head a little shake and turned a faintly apologetic smile his way. “I do. We need to talk.”

Because she was watching so closely, she saw him flinch and she immediately regretted the choice of words. In true Garrus Vakarian style, he turned the flinch into a nonchalant flick of the mandibles. “Ominous,” he replied, so carefully modulating his subharmonics that the blandness was both audible and telling.

“Not—” she began, only to pause, swallow the lie _not at all_ , and continue more truthfully, “Not entirely. Not necessarily? In any case, it’s a conversation I’d rather not have down in the battery where any tech might wander in.” Her crooked smile widened. “Or in the hallway, for that matter. Strange how much traffic this place gets, given that my cabin’s the only thing up here.”

Garrus’ huffed breath was a little too clipped to count as a chuckle and it took effort to keep her smile from slipping. If this had been a battlefield, she’d have already been trying Plan B to account for the sudden shift in tactics. But it wasn’t. And a sketched out Plan A was all she had. She took a step backward and flung her arm wide in greeting. Or that was what she intended to do. In reality, it felt more like she was wildly flailing, and her cheeks heated as she overbalanced and ever so faintly stumbled.

Garrus sauntered past her arm, giving it a _look_ , and then he turned the _look_ on her and added a definite smirk. She narrowed her eyes. “I can still punch you with it,” she muttered, earning a genuine laugh.

“You could try,” he replied. “Pretty sure you’d never—”

She punched him, swift but not at all hard, just to prove she could. The tension in his shoulders eased. Her smile lost a bit of the tightness around the edges. Before her courage abandoned her, she said, “Sit. Have some brandy. I’m definitely having wine.”

After she’d filled their glasses, she sat back, resisting the urge to cross her arms and legs, to twist her hands together in her lap. Open. _Vulnerable_ , said the voice in her head—the one she relied on to keep her safe in combat. _Too vulnerable._

This wasn’t combat, though. This wasn’t a battlefield. Garrus wasn’t her enemy.

“It’s about my Rule,” she said, not quite able to meet his eyes. “My Not Onboard the Ship Rule. Romantically-speaking.”

“Ahh,” he replied, voice revealing nothing. “I didn’t know you had one of those.”

She took a deep breath, and jumped in head-first.

It had seemed like such a good idea at the time, she explained, and, frankly, the Alliance—and Rear Admiral Hackett, in particular—owed her one after the months spent playing war hero poster girl for them post-Elysium. Sometimes when this newsie or that vid talk show host spoke to her about her heroic efforts on behalf of the beleaguered colonists, she almost forgot the reality of it. It wasn’t that she forgot her ragtag squad of Marines and civilians. It certainly wasn’t that she forgot Alberts or Kwan, or the scores of other dead the Alliance briefs tried their damnedest to downplay ( _Graves, Masaka, Koh, both Smiths_ ). It was just the Alliance version—the accepted version—was so much prettier. Less cold desperation. Less fear. They certainly never mentioned the batarian prisoner she’d killed in cold blood. But she didn’t want to start believing their propaganda, didn’t want to start seeing herself the way they saw her. Maybe no one else knew the crimes she had to answer for, but she wasn’t going to forget them. No matter how complimentary the news vids were. No matter how many medals they pinned to her breast.

So, when the posting aboard the _Sisyphus_ (irony fully intended; she had to explain the context to Garrus) came up, she jumped, begged, and finally called in the favor Hackett owed her. It was meant to be a long cruise, one that would take her out and away from the the public’s prying eye for months, half ferry and half mission of diplomacy. The ferry was for the new soldiers headed out to bolster the garrisons at colonies still shaken by what had happened on Elysium. Hell, the diplomacy was the same. Quiet. No need for heroics. Just a return to the naval duty she missed, and a way to prove the media attention and notoriety of being the latest inductee into the rarified Star of Terra club hadn’t gone to her head or ruined her ability to do her job. On the _Sisyphus_ , she’d just be one more Lieutenant with her nose to the proverbial grindstone.

The… other thing had seemed like a good idea, too. It was going to be a long tour, and even the most industrious officer had downtime to fill. Devin Rowe had seemed like an appropriate… companion for those leisure hours. More importantly, they weren’t in the same chain of command—his unit was bound for one of those distant colony outposts they were headed for—so fraternization regs weren’t going to be flouted. He was smart and quick and had the sort of dry wit she’d always been most attracted to. Also, he didn’t once mention Elysium or the Star of Terra or the fact that her face was still plastered from one end of Alliance space to the other. He’d seemed, the first couple of times their paths crossed and small talk turned to real conversation, delightfully uncomplicated.

And he had pretty eyes. And good shoulders. And a damned fine ass.

“Really, Shepard,” Garrus murmured dryly, leaning back against the couch and crossing his legs until his right ankle lay across his left knee, his posture deceptively relaxed, “is this necessary?”

The question, and the tone of it, caught her so off-guard she almost forgot to be nervous about the story she was relating. Garrus’ mandibles flared in a knowing little grin. “That ass is a vital component of the story, I’ll have you know. I definitely wouldn’t have lost my head over someone with a mediocre butt.” She lifted her still-full wine glass and took a heady sip. “Besides,” she added, with a little smirk of her own, “turnabout’s fair play. As I recall, I once had to listen to quite a lengthy description of reach and flexibility.”

“No particulars mentioned. Though she was very pretty. Obviously.”

She waved a dismissive hand in his direction, and took another gulp of wine.

“More importantly, does this mean you have a similar list of descriptors for me?”

Shaking her head, she laughed. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” His expression shifted toward distinctly aggrieved, and she relented. “Anything’s got to be better than nice hair, supportive waist.”

“Mmm. Go on.”

She lowered her brows, but didn’t lose the smile. “All in good time. I promise to gloss over the, uh, commentary, but I really do need to explain what happened.”

Brushing one palm down her leg, she paused, searching for the best path through the story. Garrus said nothing, and though he held his brandy in one hand, she noticed he hadn’t sipped from it.

Strange, how some things about that time were so clear. The layout of the ship—and all the half-hidden nooks and crannies she’d grown so familiar with—remained burned in her memory, but she couldn’t remember the names of any of her bunkmates. There’d been a blonde who reminded her too much of Alberts; after that she hadn’t looked too closely. It hadn’t been romantic, with Rowe. He was attractive—

“Right,” said Garrus, “eyes, shoulders, ass. We covered that part. Thoroughly.”

Rowe hadn’t asked too many questions, but he’d been interested enough that even she, who was generally oblivious to that sort of attention, couldn’t fail to notice. Still, he didn’t proposition her. He waited for her to make the first move.

Like the floor plan, like the precise shade of his eyes, the interaction that pushed them over the line from flirting to lovers remained indelibly marked in her brain. He grinned, made a joke about downtime—heavy emphasis on _down._

Shepard sighed. “Anyway, he accepted my… offer.”

Garrus hummed an indignant protest. “You’ve got to be kidding. I have to hear loving descriptions of posteriors and I don’t even get the bad pick-up line that’s making you blush almost ten years later?”

Shepard drank her wine and stared at her fish tank, wishing she had fish to watch swimming. Fish were vital. Who’d have thought.

“Not to mention whatever’s going on with your heart rate.” The smirk came through loud and clear, even though she wasn’t looking at him to see it.

“I told you, uh, right around the same time you showed up with bad wine and worse music, didn’t I? I’m not good at this. The me I was a decade ago was even worse, with nearly complete lack of experience to boot. You thought I was offering to be your actual sparring partner, right? Well. Like that, only with a play on the word _down_.”

It had been _if you’ve got time, soldier, I know where we can get down._

And she’d… _gestured._

Funny, how eternally the wound of complete and utter embarrassment could remain unhealed. All it took was one random thought to split the whole thing wide again. Oozing. Bad image. Her blush burned hotter.

Garrus relented, chuckling. “So, you’re on a long trip with Mr. Fine Ass, spending a lot of _downtime_ together, all without breaking regs. Where’s the trouble?”

“It was…” She cleared her throat, returning her attention to him, setting the wine glass on the table. “It was _bad_. Terrible. And not just young-and-needs-practice bad. _I_ was young-and-needs-practice bad, by my own admission. He was… just… let’s just say Rowe was a kid whose, uh, facility with… calibration was certainly no match for yours, combined with a belief that his, um, Thanix cannon was in optimal—nay, ideal—working order.”

Garrus ducked his head in that adorable almost-shy way he had, so at odds with his usual bravado and well-earned confidence. His eyes, however, laughed at her. “You’re ruining my gun for me, Shepard.”

Her own laughter emerged too-tight, like the warble of a confused bird. “Sorry. Anyway. I wanted to give him the benefit of the doubt, but he, uh—yeah. Wasn’t interested in improving. Or involving my pleasure in the equation. So I ended it.”

“Rightfully so.”

The low rumble of displeasure in his subharmonics made her stomach flip and her heart stutter.

“It got ugly. Hurt feelings, I guess. Weeks of him following me, waiting for me, gazing at me with wounded eyes, trying to explain that we were ‘meant to be.’ I couldn’t turn a damn corner without him being around it. Turns out… he thought it was more than stress relief, and did not want to accept that I disagreed with his assessment.”

All joking, all amusement vanished. Garrus’ mandibles snapped tight to his face, and the look in his eyes usually prefaced someone’s head exploding. Via bullet and his unerring aim. He sat upright, placing his glass of brandy on the table, watching her carefully.

When she’d finally swallowed her pride and went to her CO, he’d obliged her request and switched her schedule. This only started a vicious rumor that Star of Terra Shepard was pulling strings, using her position to serve herself, thought she was better than the rest of them. Unearned superiority: worse than a plague and thrice as virulent. Especially in the military. No one wanted a part of that; hell, Shepard wouldn’t have wanted to be seen with herself, either, if it’d been true. She’d spent a lot of time in the gym, running and lifting and boxing by herself; even more holed up in those nooks and crannies, blowing her wages on vids and electronic books. She’d watched all fifteen seasons of some dreadful serial soap whose terribly disappointing ending still haunted her. “He dragged my name through the mud, and I’m pretty sure—though I could never prove it—he went to the vids. There were some pictures, some… intimate information. Admiral Hackett wasn’t impressed. Hell, I was _furious_.”

“Please tell me this ended with them never finding his body.”

“I was young,” she admitted. “I was stupid. I blamed myself for getting involved in the first place. It ended when his unit finally reached their damn destination, and not before. I did more Alliance damage control; the story eventually died. I saw Rowe once, a few years later—”

“And they never found his body?”

Shepard rolled her eyes. “I’d just reached N7. He was still stationed in a backwater unit on a colony world whose most dangerous inhabitants were the easily-avoidable flesh-eating fish. The planet had so few resources even the most desperate pirates gave it a wide berth.” She shrugged. “And his ass wasn’t even particularly nice any more; too much sitting on it. As justice went, I felt pretty well-served.”

A little of Garrus’ tension eased, though his expression remained sharp. Archangel, she thought, wouldn’t have agreed with her take on justice. Not poetic enough. He shook his head, visibly setting his irritation to the side. “Why tell me this, Shepard? Unless you want to tell me… you know, I’d use a gun metaphor, but you’ve ruined them. Maybe forever.”

“Says Mr. Popping the Heat Sink?” Garrus grimaced, but Shepard only shook her head. “No. Uh. No complaints on that score. I’m… I suppose I’m trying to explain what solidified my Not Onboard the Ship Rule. Because I’ve stuck to it for a decade. Inviolably. Until. Well. You.”

He leaned forward, planting his sharp elbows on his thighs. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me. Your ship, your rules. What happened before the Omega 4 Relay—”

“And several times after,” she interjected wryly.

He smirked. “And several memorable times after… doesn’t need to happen now. We both know things have changed, and that the Alliance has stricter operational rules than Cerberus ever did. Hell, we’ve got entire worlds resting on our shoulders. I can… wait.”

“But I can’t.” He blinked at her, and she’d have been amused at his confusion if her own gut wasn’t full of butterflies doing a tarantella. “I don’t want to. The Reapers are playing for keeps, Garrus, and we’ve got no guarantees we’ll be here tomorrow, let alone a week or a month or a year from now. When I—back then, the worst threats were batarian raiders and pirates in the Verge. The Alliance wasn’t losing people on a regular basis, and the threat of war was all but nonexistent. I was young and bright and had my whole life in front of me. I’d… I’d never died. Loss was… it happened, it definitely happened, but infrequently. I thought I had time.”

His fingers twitched, and she scooted sideways on the couch, close enough to twine her fingers with his, holding them tightly. “I’ve sacrificed a lot of things on the altar of duty,” she continued, voice catching. “Without complaint, for the most part. I’m not willing—I don’t want to sacrifice this. You. Us.”

She closed her eyes when he didn’t reply right away. _I want something to go right_ , she thought. “When I—when we talked, back then, about your recon scout, about reach and flexibility, it was about blowing off steam. No strings. No… complication. It was—”

“Shepard—”

“I—just let me finish this part. Like with Rowe, I’m afraid my intentions could be, might be… misconstrued. So I need to clear the air. I need to make sure we’re on the same page. I need—”

“To let me have a second?”

With difficulty, she swallowed the rush of words. They boiled in her throat, seeking release. Garrus’ hand was still in hers. That was something. He met her gaze and held it. He said nothing. He didn’t look away.

She’d survived Mindoir, and the miserable years after. She’d held on tooth and bloody nail on Elysium. She’d clawed her way through ICT, even when success seemed impossible. She’d fought Saren with a pistol and metaphorically spat in the Illusive Man’s eye without so much as flinching.

Letting this wall crumble—saying nothing, refusing to look away—was harder than all of it combined.

Garrus covered their joined hands with his other hand, just as he had on Menae, though this time there was no armor between them, no curious eyes watching. Her throat tightened. She wasn’t ashamed of the sting in her eyes, and did not lie to herself about the cause of it.

He said, “When you came down to the battery all those months ago and… opened the book? I was already on this page. I just didn’t have words for it, yet.”

“All right,” she replied. Swallowed. “I’m pretty sure I was, too.”

She didn’t need a visor to see the way her words affected him. The flutter of his mandibles. The catch of breath. The spasm of his hand still wrapped around hers.

“All right,” he echoed, subvocals ragged. “And if you ever need to invoke your Rule… you know I would never—it would never even _occur_ to me—”

“I know that. Of course I know that, Garrus. There’s not a single damn thing you have in common with Rowe.”

“Except the pretty eyes, good shoulders, damned fine ass.”

She laughed a deep, refreshing belly laugh, and it felt like coming home. “To say nothing of that waist. So supportive. Mmm.”

“Never going to let that one go, are you?”

She raised a suggestive eyebrow and then added, more seriously, “I trust you to have my six; I trust you to follow a good order and question a bad one, same as always. I hope you trust me not to… abuse the appearance of command. We’re a team, Garrus. Shepard and Vakarian, right? Nothing about that changes except, I hope, the sleeping arrangements.” She bent her head, pressing a kiss to the back of his hand. “I don’t want to hide. I don’t want to pretend we aren’t what we are. Unless… unless it makes _you_ uncomfortable. With the inevitable media attention, with the Primarch on board—”

“I think Victus knew where this was going before we did. Besides,” he shrugged, “bad turian.”

“So you keep saying.”

He freed one of his hands, but only so he could drape his arm over her shoulders, pulling her close enough she felt the rumble of his words when he said, “The truth is, I don’t give a damn what other people think. We’re professionals. I know it, you know it, I think anyone who’s worked with us knows it. That’s not going to change, even when the sleeping arrangements most definitely do. If tabloid trash is more interested in what we’re doing than the Reaper invasion, that’s on them.” With a little of the cockiness she knew so well, he added, “If nothing else, we prove alien… cooperation is possible.”

“If you’re suggesting Wrex and Primarch Victus hug out their differences, I think you’re in for some resistance.”

He grinned. “All I’m saying is, when it comes right down to it, I wouldn’t bet against us, Shepard. The Reapers aren’t the only ones playing for keeps.”

“Damn straight,” she agreed, tilting her head up to meet his kiss, and return it with one of her own.


End file.
